| | | | | | | <2. Villette. By CURRER BELL.> | | | There is enough of resemblance in the two | authoresses whose works stand at the head of | our article, to justify placing them in contrast | and juxtaposition. Resemblance, if not in the | ordinary points where similarity is to be looked | for ~~ in style, in characters, in aims ~~ yet in | the circumstances which first introduced them | to the reading world, and determined their | standing as novelists. Both excited a very | unusual interest and attention by a work of | fiction, ~~ in each case a first attempt at this | style of composition, ~~ both chose female | autobiography as the form in which to express, | with much energy and power, the conceptions | which had probably long excited and occupied | their own minds; ~~ both while professing a | zeal for religion and a reverence for morality, | allowed a heated imagination to betray them | into scenes opposed to the interests and | dictates of either; ~~ both showed themselves | unscrupulous in their modes of producing | effect. But these, and such similarities, only | give point to the striking contrasts which | distinguish these writers and tempt us to a joint | review of their latest productions. It is only | indeed in the republic of letters, where all are | equal, and stand on their own inherent merits, | that there is ground for parallel and | comparison; and one of the first contrasts | which must strike the reader, is the different | spheres in which these two ladies have | acquired their knowledge of life, and the wide | disparity of their social position ~~ we speak, | we need not say, only from those facts which | lie on the surface, are known to all the world, | and are acknowledged by both. The one has | been educated in the consciousness of rank and | station; her position has made her one of a | brilliant, courted, envied society; she belongs | to it, and it is part of herself; it is the medium | through which she has seen the world. The | other has looked upon life under less agreeable, | but perhaps more truth-telling circumstances; | her writings betray a knowledge of difficulties | and hardships of a nature quite different from | the embarrassments, sins, and sorrows, born of | excitement, luxury, and a superabundance of | leisure. She has known what neglect is; she has | felt the depressing weight of circumstances, the | struggle with adverse fate. In every bright and | gay scene she has painted, she shows herself an | observer only, not a sharer; indemnifying | herself, half proudly, half sadly, by the | consciousness of intellectual | | superiority, for this ever present sense of | isolation. She has looked upon society, so far | as she is acquainted with it, from the shade of | an anxious ungenial seclusion; ~~ a seclusion | from gaiety, not from business or cares, nor yet | from mankind in its stern unyielding business-like | aspect. To the one life has been a | spectacle, to the other a lesson. The appropriate | figure for the scene in the one case is a theatre | in the other a school. No home-like thoughts | attach to either. | | Another main contrast lies in their religion, for | both are strong religionists in their way, and in | very different ways. Lady Georgiana, we need | not say, is a Roman Catholic, with all the zeal | of a convert for what is exclusively Romish in | the faith of her adoption. Her sympathy for | extravagant creature-worship, as developed in | her favourite female characters, may not | unfairly be considered as one preparation for, | and explanation of, conversion to a system | which surely sanctions, while it professes to | spiritualize, this tendency of the human mind. | And so also is her disregard for the dictates of | reason and common sense as guides of | conduct, and preference for unreasonable | self-sacrifice, which we find practised by her | saintly characters, to the injury only of their | own just rights, but to the still greater injury of | the true interests of those they wish to serve. | Currer Bell, the Protestant, takes an opposite | line. She boldly says, that if ever she forsakes | the true God, it will be to worship reason. She | declares against calling things by wrong names. | Suffering is suffering; do not call it a privilege | or a blessing; and get away from it if you | lawfully can. The "Bible, and the Bible only," | is her religion and with its pages she is so | familiar, in every sense that little awe or | reverence remains, and she incorporates its | phrases and ideas into her ordinary language | with no more pause or apology than if she were | quoting Shakspeare or Bacon. As for forms and | ceremonies, they are not likely to gain much | respect where the Bible fails. Nor is she | tolerant of controversies on what she is pleased | to consider minor points, amongst which a | great many grave questions are included. Only | against "the Pope and all his works" is she | fiercely zealous. In opposing him you can only | be secure of not fighting shadows. | | Again, in the conduct of the story, the one | aims at enchaining the attention and hurrying | the reader on by striking scenes harrowing | perplexities, and remarkable situations; the | other allows him to pause and linger in his | quieter progress, less anxious to know the end, | than amused by the strokes of nature which | enliven the way. One is commonly lofty and | cold in her choice of heroes; she invests them | with perfections; they are worshipped as well | as loved by the heroine ~~ invariably more | fluent in expressing these sentiments than her | stately idol. But they never, for this | | seem to fit, or properly to belong to one | another. The other has no belief in perfection, | and very little liking for what would leave no | play for her penetration ~~ for what may be | denominated the detective force of her | intellect. She is lenient of weak points; nay, a | considerable infusion of alloy is to her an | attraction, and that not the silver of | exaggerated virtues, but the copper and lead of | every ~~ day unmistakeable faults. We ought | all to be ashamed to be no better than her | heroes and might hope to be equally agreeable. | Her object is to show two minds nicely fitting | and adjusted to one another; when she has | accomplished this adaptation, she does not care | that will not suit the world at large. She has | done what she wished in bringing about a real | contact ~~ a true response of mind to mind. | | Both are charged with mannerism, not, we | think, with equal reason, for Lady Georgina | betrays this fault in both its marks, not only by | an uniform choice of peculiar persons and | situations, as, for instance, by fixing on the | delicate embarrassments which seem, in her | idea, to beset the conjugal relation, for her | constant theme, but by making all her | characters too often think and feel out of a | common stock of thought and sentiment. | Currer Bell has a confined range of experience, | and she, too, chooses peculiar persons, and | situations on which to practise her art, but she | makes them each speak and act according to | their individual nature. | Of course the double mannerism simply | betrays a want of resources. Striking scenes are | commonly the fruit of early impressions, | stamping themselves indelibly on the mind. It | is only the higher range of genius and | imagination which can go on coining and | renewing these vivid impressions. In how many | popular writers can we trace through their | ingenious disguises the same original scene, | the same actors engaged, the same emotions | excited; but while the observation is still keen | the knowledge of nature accurate and truth of | individual character preserved, we forget | sameness of plot, and are indifferent to | mannerism of class and situation. But where | there has never been any close imitation of | nature, nor any startling truth of description, ~~ | where the fancy has always asserted itself | above the reason, and has accustomed itself to | bend characters to circumstances, rather than | frame the circumstances according to the | characters, ~~ each succeeding effort is sure to | be a falling off from the last; in most of its | elements, (as analysed by criticism,) indeed the | same; but the freshness and vigour of the | original conception, and the power with which | the story was sustained, necessarily suffering | diminution, from the effort being little more | than a repetition of what has gone before. | | It is now time that we enter upon a review of | the two | | works which, in connexion with their | predecessors, have suggested these remarks, ~~ | and will begin, according to all the rights of | precedence, with Lady G. Fullerton's "Lady | Bird;" a title, by the way, pretty enough in | itself, but not at all descriptive of the heroine, | and indeed seemingly founded on a half-mistake, | for the creature, from whom the name | is borrowed, is more often assumed to be a | bird, than the insignificant insect it really is. To | pursue our comments on the title-page. The | motto, though well chosen, betrays the author's | consciousness of the weak point of her story; | and while she deprecates criticism, proves her | well aware that she, deserves it. Strange things | do happen, and Shakspeare wisely bids us, ~~ | | | | It is very certain that the ordinary course of | Providence does meet with strange checks, ~~ | that things often fall out in a wonderful | manner, ~~ that not only events happen, which | beforehand would have been deemed | impossible, but that men constantly act in | opposition to their character in a way that | could not have been foreseen. This may be all | true, yet that is an indifferent fiction, which is | constructed on these phenomena: which, ~~ | because wise men often do foolish things, and | strong-minded men weak ones, ~~ because | men's conduct is often unnatural, that is, | opposed to their instincts and their interests, | should found its plot on these exceptions to the | general law: and this is certainly the case with | the present story. Gertrude, with her strong will | and high order of intelligence, acts in the great | emergency of her life with miserable | vacillating imbecility. Maurice, in his conduct | towards Mary, is unreasonably and unnaturally | treacherous. Mary, with a pure conscience and | clear perception of right and wrong, is blind to | the most flagrant improprieties. While Mr. | Lifford, the father, with his hatred and tyranny | and pride, is as much a monster as Cerberus | himself. No-one | acts according to his character | where the progress of the plot is concerned, | and the consequence is, that the characters | have no identity or continuity, on which | depends our power of realizing them. We, for | one, must own to having ceased to care for the | brilliant, clever, determined heroine, when we | found her behaving like a weak-minded | simpleton on the first occasion when the story | gave her an opportunity of displaying her rare | qualities. But we are anticipating. The heroine's | father, Mr. Lifford, is a man of ancient family | and good fortune, living in a dull, cold, gloomy | mansion, which aptly represents himself. He is | a Catholic by birth, but regardless of the | precepts and unobservant of the rules of his | creed. | | He had married in pique, after a | disappointment, a Spanish lady of noble birth | and great beauty, whose vocation had been the | cloister and who esteems her subsequent dreary | and unhappy life the punishment for having in | a moment of temptation, renounced her calling. | She is confined to her couch by a lifelong | illness, an object for the neglect and | indifference of her husband, as her beautiful | daughter is for his more active antipathies. We | presume the "Spanish mother," so rare in real | life and so frequent in fiction, is a happy | artifice for securing to the heroine those graces | and fascinations by inheritance, which, to our | stiff insular frames and tempers, are only the | gifts of careful training and education, | advantages very seldom accorded to the | heroine of romance, and from which ours is so | entire, excluded that at her first ball she has | actually to be taught to dance by one of her | admirers, half an hour in an empty room being | amply sufficient for the purpose, and to make | her the most popular partner in the room. | | The story opens in her childhood. She has a | brother younger than herself, and of intellects | too dull and formal for companionship; and, | thrown upon herself and upon books, her mind | develops too fast for her health, and the | physicians prescribe recreation. Upon this | Father Lifford, uncle to her father, residing in | the house as priest and confessor, suggests her | spending a few hours of every day with Mary | Gray, a little girl two or three years her senior, | and of the same faith. | | Mrs. Redmond, Mary's mother had married the | second time an artist, who himself also brought | a child towards the new | menage having previously married an | Italian of great musical talents, by whom he | had one son, Maurice Redmond, who plays a | very conspicuous part in the piece. Mary and | Maurice, in childhood, think themselves | brother and sister. He is a boy of genius, the | poet and inventor in all their games ~~ and to | him Gertrude owed her name of Lady-Bird, | which she bore in all their plays and | recitations. | | We then pass over a few years. Gertrude is | sixteen, Mary a little older, and tacitly engaged | to Maurice. She is devoted to him; he thinks | himself devoted to her, ~~ to her mild graces | and gentle ways. Mary is a very notable little | body; her love of her needle and horror of | idleness, are no doubt esteemed appropriate | middle-class virtues, and she never swerves | from them under the most critical | circumstances. She grudges a few minutes at | an open window this very evening, when she is | expecting her lover. She | never forgets or neglects his shirts, which | are frequently brought before the reader's | attention. She will not even take a walk with | him till Sunday, because all her time is | occupied in restoring the ravages of foreign | laundresses. | | If anything, we, should say, could excuse | Maurice's behaviour to his Mary, it is her | mistimed industry. On the occasion we speak | of, however, he did not come. He had found a | patron, Count Adrien d'Arberg, who had | generously taken him to Italy to cultivate his | genius for music. | | Mary corresponds with Maurice, and Gertrude | sees his letters and is interested in them, and | once or twice writes herself, instead of Mary, | her family being ignorant of the extent of her | intimacy, and leaving her entirely to her own | guidance. Her own tastes are decidedly | democratic, chiefly from opposition to her | father, who is a rigid aristocrat and prouder of | his sixteen quarterings than of any earthly | possession. Gertrude therefore treats Mary as | her equal, and is very much disposed to regard | Maurice in the same light, not that she is at all | in love with him, though pleased with his | respectful admiration ~~ more than was at all | proper from Mary's lover. We find them both | described in the following passage: ~~ | | A very terse and antithetical style, our readers | will think, for seventeen; but the dialogue | frequently suffers from the same cause, and | Mary is not a whit behind her high-born friend | in the accomplishment of neat speaking. Our | author | Mary says, | But this is a | digression. Maurice's feelings soon become | entangled; he supposes he only admires | Gertrude, when, in fact, she is, without exactly | knowing what she is about, stealing his heart | from Mary. He gives Gertrude singing-lessons; | and her father chancing to see a lesson in | progress, sees enough to make him write a note | of dismissal to the master, and to ask for his | account, a proceeding profoundly disgusting to | the pride of Maurice. Mary is not dissatisfied | that the lessons are over, for she has had | uneasy feelings in spite of the continuance of | Maurice's tenderness towards herself; so she | makes out the bill, and | | Gertrude pays them both a visit of indignant | apology, and all passes well over that time. | | Gertrude's home is dull; her mother, separated | by language and ill-health, has not been | hitherto much to her children, though they | occupy her heart; but about this time she and | her daughter are drawn more together. | Gertrude longs for society, for the world, for | occupation. Her father puts a cold veto on | every amusement or employment. She boldly | announces that something serious will come of | it, if she has to endure this constraint and | dulness much longer. She talks to Father | Lifford, one of pleasantest the characters in the | book, perhaps, because, he is purposely drawn | in contrast to the Protestant ideal of a Roman | Catholic priest; ~~ rough, and almost surly in | tone, full of the Lifford prejudices in the family | circle, but conscientious, tender and | considerate in his confessional capacity. In the | first, Gertrude and he are in continual | antagonism: in the last, he has influence over | her which he uses aright, subduing her proud | temper and softening her heart. Finding Father | Lifford an unsympathetic listener to all her for | longings for a gayer and happier life, she talks | to her mother, who can enter into her feelings. | At this time a grand entertainment is going to | be given in the neighbourhood. She has reason | to know that her presence is wished for, but | that she is considered inaccessible, for her | father declines all society. She conceives an | intense desire to go and get one little glimpse | of the world she so longs for. At length the | card of invitation arrives: her father coldly | refuses her request to go. Another card had | been sent to her uncle, as the only imaginable | chaperon. She tries him but he treats her | longing as an impulse only as a longing to be | suppressed. At length she appeals to her | mother: the following conversation between | Mrs. Lifford and the Father, between whom | exists a warm affection, is the result. His | character is among the best and most consistent | in the book. Lady Georgiana has no humour; | we find nothing like wit in any of her writings | but truth of character, wherever we find it, | often answers in its stead, as an invigoration | and refreshment to the style. | | | | | Mrs. Lifford vindicates her motives and views | at some length, and concludes by some allusion | to the more painful task before her of asking | her husband's consent to her wish. | | | | | The young lady is prettily dressed out by her | mother for this important fete, both being | equally ignorant of the world's fashions. But a | certain Spanish grace is thrown over all, and, | as a crowning fascination, she places the | mystic fan in her hand, with instructions how | to use it, which are caught in a second by the | young girl's quick intelligence. Thus armed for | conquest, and softened by expectation, | Gertrude asks, ~~ | | | | | Gertrude sets out with her singular chaperon, | who keeps his word on the point of not looking | after her. She abandons herself to the | amusement of the scene, talks, dances, flirts, | and enjoys intensely the admiration she creates. | Maurice, in a semi-professional capacity, is | there, alternately patronised and neglected by | Gertrude, and goes through passionate | vicissitudes of feeling, ending by carrying off | Mary, to whom he is still the declared lover, in | gloomy disgust. But these are but preludes to | the real interest of the occasion, for here, | towards the close of the evening Gertrude has | a momentary glimpse of, and an interchange of | a few trivial words with the hero; but these | sufficient to determine her fate, and, in the | author's opinion, to justify the absolute | surrender of her heart. | | "Love" and "Passion," all those emotions which | more timid writers veil under the shelter of a | guarded periphrasis, afraid to shock the | scrupulous by any direct designation, are | clearly regarded by our authoress as her | peculiar province. She has thought much and | deeply on the subject, and with all the courage | and familiarity inspired by a scientific analysis | she contemns reserves. She has classified her | opinions, tested them by experience and | examples, and formed them into a system ~~ | looked into every phase of her subject, | overcome all its difficulties. She is ready to | argue upon and defend her conclusions, as a | controversialist some favourite dogma; stakes | her all, as he does his faith and credit, upon this | one die; and her conclusion is, that these | emotions are independent of the reason, and | above control. Afraid of no extremes, deterred | by no ultimate consequences, she justifies | while she portrays the absolute yielding of the | soul to blind unreasoning passion; and | despising all aids from convention and | prescription, she chooses the subjects for the | impulse, not from men, who are supposed to | have more active control over their destiny, but | from amongst women, who commonly make | no pretension to the initiative, and claim only | the veto. In "Ellen Middleton" we see it | pictured, where, the sentiment was entertained | in spite of what seemed insuperable obstacles: | ~~ | | | | | In the present volume, where the heroine has | only had a momentary glance of the object of | her worshipping admiration ~~ is ignorant even | of his name and country ~~ the following | arguments are used in vindication of the | preliminary stage of feeling, and of the | subsequent formal act of self-abandonment to | the idol, which follows upon it: ~~ | | | We will not pause to enter into the hidden | causes of emotion ~~ a subject not to be treated | in a paragraph; but in all these cases, emotion | either carries us out of ourselves, to the | contemplation of nature and the God of nature, | or out of our individuality into a happy sense of | kindred and incorporation with the whole | human family: in either case there is a fusion | and forgetfulness of self. There is no affinity | between such emotions as these ~~ which lose | their power when the consciousness of self | returns ~~ and the train of thought which | follows Gertrude's tears when we find her next | morning, meditating on the question of love at | first sight, and, not very long after ~~ and | before any reciprocity of feeling ~~ making it | the earnest subject of her prayers that she | might be his wife. | | | | We need not enter into the fallacies which | crowd this sentence. It is clearly, not the design | of Providence, any more than the fact is found | in nature, that people should | fall in love with | love it they may and must, but not | want to have it for their own, and marry it. Nor | are young people commonly so skilled in | physiognomy as to detect this inner excellence | at a glance. Of the outside, they can form a | very decided opinion; and the only lesson we | can see in this whole passage is to sanction | their deciding by this outside only. | | It is not uncommon to find sentiments like | these in many a page of the circulating library. | There we should not be surprised to find a girl | of seventeen spend a summer day in dedicating | her heart to the man she had seen for the first | time at last night's ball; nor should we feel it | necessary to enter our protest against the sense, | or morality, or propriety of the notion. But this | is a religious work ~~ the work of one who has | not found spirituality enough in our Church; | who has been attracted by the superior | strictness and the moral discipline the Church | of Rome is supposed to exercise over her | children, ruling their minds, wills, and hearts. It | is a most common fallacy to attribute, as a | thing of course, a strict moral code to all who | have taken a strong step in their religious | career; as if it were some deeper sensitiveness | ~~ some finer perception ~~ which had led | them on. Often the very contrary is the case; | our moral restraints are forgotten, or deemed | useless by enthusiasm, which claims to be | under a higher law. Thus, we find our authoress | expatiating on sublime sacrifices, on | "immense charity," on an absolute abnegation | of self; while side by side with these lofty | contemplations, we find a morality which sets | at defiance prescriptive usage ~~ which | encourages impulse and justifies | self-confidence. She has two sets of characters ~~ | one whose principle is doing what they do not | like, the other doing what they do like. What is | reasonable, and wise, and just, as a motive of | action, is alike unthought of by either, and | often equally forgotten by the author. Which of | these two classes is most likely to influence the | novel-reader, need not be made a question, | especially as all the author's powers ~~ all her | dramatic skill ~~ are engaged on the side of | those who follow nature and impulse, and the | reader's sympathies engaged, by a natural | consequence, in the same direction. All is done | to | | excite respect for the vehemence of their passions | compassion for the difficulties in which these involve | them, and excuse for their errors; while religion interposes | at the last to work out of these materials a high and | self-denying spirituality, whose romantic interest throws into | the shade the conditions of life and feeling, which a course | of ordinary prudence and principle would have resulted in. | It is no excuse to say there are | miracles of grace ~~ that history and perhaps even our | own experience, furnishes examples of a course of passion | and self-indulgence changing into one of self-discipline | and devotion. We grant it and thank God that He so | vouchsafe to bring good out of evil. But this is not the | sphere of the novelist. His duty and office confine him to | the ordinary laws of Providence and the moral government | of' the world, in which effects follow their causes ~~ | where sin shows its origin and true tendency by leading | downward from bad to worse ~~ and where the | conscience, once outraged, grows hardened, and habit | makes itself chains of iron. It is an immoral fiction whose | teaching is contrary to this universal experience, whatever | pretensions to spirituality veil its true tendency from either | writer or reader; nor can we see the chance of a good | influence, or any but a mischievous one likely to belong to | the story of Gertrude, from this commencement to its | close. | | But to return to her history, ~~ to such a slight sketch of it, | at least, as we alone have room for. An accident by a fall | from her horse, brings Gertrude within the sphere of | Adrien d'Arberg. He finds her insensible, and carries her | to the house of Lady Clara Audley, the lady who, years | ago, had discarded her father on some experience of his | bad temper. Her she is introduced to some of the | happiness she had so longed for ~~ to the charms of | brilliant society and refined luxury; and here she finds her | first impressions of the object of her admiration more than | confirmed. He is indeed largely invested with perfections. | He is of noble birth and great wealth, combining the best | qualities of the national character of England, France and | Germany, to all of which countries he belongs ~~ each | language being as his mother-tongue. We have already | been informed of his personal attractions. He is a | celebrated author ~~ his genius stemming single-handed, | the torrent of irreligion: he is "perfectly" simple and | "perfectly" profound: his "good works are prodigious:" he | has made a brilliant career in Algeria for the single | purpose of proving his courage ~~ but his zeal and | self-devotion rather point him out for the priesthood: while | minor accomplishments are not forgotten, and, to show | him an epitome of all that is "awfully vast, and elegantly | little," he is made an incomparable billiard-player, | executing without practice manoeuvres which defy all | imitation. | | As an author we have this interesting picture, which we | extract for the benefit of our literary readers; though, we | much fear, with as little chance of successful imitation as | in the more trivial case we have just quoted. It is by | Maurice, who had lived with him at Rome. | | | Mr. Lifford, at this time is conveniently called off to | Spain, and Gertrude is in consequence left very much to | follow her own pleasure in keeping up intercourse with | her new friends. Her devotion to D'Arberg is tolerably | apparent. He, on his part, receives it graciously, but does | not declare himself till she betrays her fondness in a scene | of mesmerism. There his warning voice actually | counteracts the mystic powers of the operator, and proves | the superior attraction of the two. Her mother, (who has | already been introduced to him by Gertrude) as far as lies | in her, gives her warm approval; but both mother and | daughter have misgivings of what Mr. Lifford's decision | may be on his return, for no other reason than his uniform | denial of every wish. In the meanwhile Maurice, who sees | Gertrude occasionally, but does not become so absolutely | convinced as the rest of the world of her love for | D'Arberg, thinks fit to consult her on the delicate matter of | how he is to act on a letter just received from Mary, | releasing him from his engagement with herself. It is one | of those scenes which so test the ingenuity of the novelist, | where the facts which must come | out, were the dialogue real, are to be kept in the dark: | though only partially in the dark here, for Gertrude only | hopes that she is not the object of | the treacherous affection, ~~ which she advises him to | cherish; and he does not know for certain whether she has | given him encouragement or not; Gertrude, we must add, | evincing no indignation at his shameful usage of her | friend, and a culpable indifference to the | chance of herself being its cause. | | Soon events thicken. Mr. Lifford returns from Spain, and | sends his uncle, the priest, in his place to look after his | son's broken leg. M. d'Arberg seeks an interview with the | father, but is dismissed without being allowed to see | Gertrude or herself being informed of his visit. She | becomes perplexed at his | | long silence, makes inquiries, hears, through Maurice, that | he is in Paris, and supposed to be preparing himself for the | priesthood. Her mother whose health has long been | sinking makes, a great effort to plead her cause with her | husband and a scene ensues, some intimation of which | Gertrude gathers in the next room. At length he summons | her to her mother who is dying. She dies before there is | time for a word with her distracted daughter, who is now | left in grief, bitterness of heart, with none between her and | her father. Mr. Lifford drowns whatever remorse he has, in | the splendours of a grand funeral; and the very next day, at | evening, Gertrude is summoned to him receive the | extraordinary announcement, that, while he was in Spain, | he promised her hand to a certain Count Mirasole, who he | had just heard was to arrive that night, and whom she must | receive as her husband. She asks if these were the only | overtures he had received for her. He then is forced to | admit his interview with D'Arberg, but treats, his claims | with lofty contempt, finally showing Gertrude a passage | from a French newspaper, which announces that he is | entering the priesthood. If there is any use in a vigorous, | intelligent mind, decided character, and strong will, to say | nothing of "the deep power of loving," of which we hear | so much, we should have expected these qualities to serve | Gertrude in her present extremity. But no victim of | Spanish or Italian oppression ever found herself less | prepared for an emergency. She had been used to contests | of opinion with her father. She was fully, aware that | nothing could be done to her against her will. She was not | blinded by jealousy; yet she is cast at once into such | desolation and despair as to lose all power of thought and | self-defence, except the very feeble one of running away. | She quits the house in the dark, and makes her way to Mrs. | Edmond's in the village close at hand. This, however, is | nothing to the betrayal of her good genius that follows, | and which classes this story amongst the most | preposterous of fictions. When she arrives at the door it is | opened by Maurice, who informs her that his mother and | Mary had set off that day for London, where they were | going to reside, and that he was the sole occupant of the | house. | | The authoress never seems to realize the base and | contemptible fellow she makes Maurice. Anybody | professing selfish and exaggerated love has her | sympathies, whatever despicable actions it leads to. We | have seen his desertion of Mary. Now, when this poor | distracted girl arrives alone at night at his door, his instant | thought is to take advantage of her situation and | distraction for his own purposes. He dissuades her from | taking refuge at the priest's house in the village. He forces | upon her his own audacious proposal of an immediate | marriage. The opening words of the | | following scene refer to the question he once put to her on | the matter of Mary's letter and his own preference for | another: ~~ | | | Though we have scruples of propriety against the language | in which the present writer so fluently expresses intense | affection, yet, in one point, her love falls far short of what | our sense of romantic constancy requires. Her most | impassioned heroines are always more open to the | pleasure of being loved by others beside the object of their | own regard, than we can at all allow for or comprehend. In | no emergency are they above this sentiment. There are | occasions when we should suppose a declaration of this | sort abhorrent to a lady's feelings; and the more daring and | passionate its language, the more repulsive. But with these | eloquent ladies ~~ and though we have repeated none of | Gertrude's professions of idolizing affection, our readers | are to suppose them of the most ardent character, in the | midst of anguish and despair, such as only our authoress | knows how to describe ~~ a little extraneous love-making | does come in as a consolation. Ellen Middleton found | something | | congenial in Henry Lovel's ravings ~~ | ~~ and Gertrude in Maurice's. Long ago we | are told that, from the bottom of her heart, she was | touched at having inspired such a feeling. And here the | | are acknowledged to have wrought | powerfully on her feelings. And what a moment is chosen | for this trait of what is thought nature! Her mother just | dead! herself a fugitive from her father's house! still | | and now alone at dead of night, under such | peculiar circumstances of helpless distress. That she | should not shrink revolting from Maurice, instead of being | induced to acquiesce out of pity and from gratitude for his | love so offered! ~~ that she should be persuaded to her | utter ruin by what should have roused all her spirit and | indignation, and recalled her to herself! | | What follows, is in the last stage of melodramatic | impossibility. Maurice brings her to London, where they arrive | very early in the morning at his mother's door. He | announces to Mary that they are to be married | immediately. Gertrude, profoundly miserable and stupified | to the degree necessary for the author's plans, enters into | no explanation with Mary. It is taken for granted by her | and by everyone | that the marriage must be, though the | impossibility of drawing back is entirely in the writer's | own imagination, not in fact. Mary behaves like the | simpleton good people are too often made in these kind of | works, where goodness is set upon a pedestal to be looked | at but never reached by the spectators, ~~ where goodness, | in fact, is made a sort of quality unfitting its possessor for | any useful part in this world. Mary, then, instead of seeing | that it is the duty of a friend to protect Gertrude in the | preposterous situation in which she has fallen, and also to | warn Maurice of the unprincipled course he is pursuing, | makes up her mind to go with them to church as soon as | he brings the licence, and to take her mother too, in order | to give her sanction to what she knows and says is wrong: | the act of virtue, be it observed, consisting not in its being | a right thing in itself, or advantageous to others, but solely | that it is disagreeable and repugnant to the just natural | feelings of the performer, ~~ taking Father Lifford's view, | that one mortification is as good as another. If Mary had | listened to her feelings, and acted with common sense | upon them, not giving way, to resentment, which would | have been wrong, but judging reasonably on what was due | to herself, her friend. and her quondam | lover, the story would have foundered at this stage. | But a spirit of blind self-sacrifice is thought the preferable | virtue; and in this spirit she rejects an opening that is given | her for an explanation for Gertrude asks her ~~ looking | only as heroines can look ~~ | | To which Mary only | answers, the colour rushing into her face, | | | The miserable day is well described. Maurice's tormenting | attentions; Gertrude's sobs and sighs, and longings to be | alone; her exclamation when she sees him walk off with | Mary, | Mary now comes to an explanation with | Maurice, which she ought to have insisted upon at once, | and has a glimpse of the baseness of his conduct; though | none knows but himself that, an hour before the marriage | he had received a letter from D'Arberg, enclosing one to | Gertrude, which, as an honourable man, he commits to his | care to deliver to her. | | Mary feels it her duty to make the married pair as comfortable | as she can; she decorates their humble lodgings, she | works for them with her never-wearying needle; till, after | a time, she and her mother return to the country, and | Gertrude and her husband are left alone in their dreary | home. Previous to this there has been a well-drawn scene, | where Father Lifford arrives all unconscious from Spain, | calls upon Mrs. Redmond to hear some news, and learns | the whole wretched truth from Gertrude. She tells him that | she has married Maurice not for love, but from despair. | The duties of the priest and confessor overcome the | outraged feelings of the man: he gives her good advice, he | pities her, and sees that with her father lies half the blame. | The picture of Gertrude's accommodating herself in cold | deceptive resignation to her new sphere, of duties suits the | writer's genius. She stolidly determines to do her duty by | her husband; she economizes, adapts herself to her altered | fortunes, and falls into the habits of his class, walks with | him and visits with him, and never disobeys him; and, by | this conduct, naturally enough, drives him to exasperation | and despair, for she makes it clear through all that she | does not love him. | | | This is all very well, but if the authoress by this candid | view of Gertrude's' faults supposes that she throws the | responsibility | | of sympathising with her course of conduct upon the | reader, and. escapes the dilemma herself, she deceives | herself. We believe Gertrude's situation an impossible | one, and we are never bound to bring our judgment and | moral acumen to bear on impossibilities. People cannot | love treachery, meanness, selfishness, faithlessness, | especially when especially when practised to the utter ruin | of themselves; and to say at this stage of the | | is a simple unreality, which the authoress has taken no | pains to make otherwise. The wretched pair go on from | bad to worse. Accident brings to Gertrude's knowledge the | letter which Adrien had written to her. Maurice has taken | it from its concealment, thinking to open it, when her eyes | catch the direction, and she insists upon reading it, which | in jealous desperation, he makes her do in his presence, | and then in his turn reads it also. | | | After this Gertrude relaxes in some of her virtuous | resolutions ~~ she allows herself to think of her lover, and | to read his works. In the meanwhile Maurice, whose | genius fails him in the midst of these vicissitudes of | anguish, gets into difficulties, and is arrested, and | liberated to his vexation by his wife's small independence. | On his release, Gertrude proposes emigration to America. | As the first wish of any sort she had ever expressed, he | acquiesces, and they set about the preparations for | departure. | | But time will not allow us to linger. Our readers will not | be surprised, however remarkable the circumstance would | appear to Gertrude, that Adrien d'Arberg had chanced to | take his passage to America by the same ship, the object | of his voyage being to protect and settle a party of Irish | emigrants. She was made aware very early of this fact, but | some days elapsed before she saw him, and supposed | some mistake, till it turned out that he had taken his | passage in the steerage, for the sake of more entirely | devoting himself to his charge. There, every evening, he | addressed them in eloquent words of instruction and | amusement, and there Gertrude went evening after | evening to listen to him. For a long time no mutual | recognition took place, till on one occasion he made a | pathetic allusion to recent troubles, and Gertrude on the | impulse of the moment throwing up her veil, their eyes | met. Gertrude is not commended for this; on the contrary, | we find the following solemn passage on the tempter's | power over her soul: ~~ | | These are no doubt in the true vein of the tempter's arguments. | The only pity for the moral is, that they are made to | come true: that she follows this advice and the story turns | it to her eternal benefit, though with some intermediate | perils and reverses. D'Arberg soon seeks an interview, to | learn, for the first time, the cause of her desertion of him. | In the course of the conversation we come to the following | passage: ~~ | | | | | We beg to protest with all our hearts against this mingling | of earthly and, in this case, unlawful passion with the | language of spirituality and devotion. We do not speak of | the intention, but the effect is simply profane, and | whatever influence such a passage has | must be for mischief, ~~ confusing and erasing the | boundaries of right and wrong. After this explanation they | meet constantly, and it is admitted, not without danger to | both. | Gertrude scarcely endeavours to | protect herself from the danger to which she is exposed. | Her aim is to procure from D'Arberg a promise that they | shall meet again after their landing. | | | Maurice has all this while been in a state of moody | wretchedness, and suffers too from illness of a serious | nature. He is full of remorse and despair, and would be | glad to die, and leave those whom he has divided at liberty | to be happy. The same thought for a moment flashes | through her mind. "Till death do us part" floated in her | ear, and the recoil and the horror of the suggestion are | represented as sufficient to recal her to herself. It is right | to make it so; but unfortunately the reader has thought of | that expedient so long before, that he feels to have no right | to pass a very austere judgment. However, the | remembrance of the temptation urges Gertrude to | penitence, and a sort of remorseful tenderness towards her | husband, which she has never shown or felt before. She | gratifies him by some marks of affection, which excite | emotions too strong for his feeble frame. Fainting, he calls | for the cordial which had been prescribed for him. In her | hurry she seizes the wrong bottle, and finds, after he has | swallowed it, that she has poisoned him The doctor is | inefficient; in her extremity | | she summons D'Arberg, and by their joint efforts | Maurice's life is saved. But while he hung between life | and death, the consciousness of error in each, led them to | whisper a mutual vow of final separation, whatever might | be the consequences of that hour. Our authoress is fond of | vows and oaths ~~ very convenient but we would take | leave to say very questionable, means for gaining a | purpose in romance. By an absurd oath, Ellen Middleton is | withheld from a statement of facts which would have | made all plain and straightforward, and dispersed to the | winds her web of wretched entanglements; a promise of | concealment in "Grantley Manor," places the saintly | Ginevra in situations of apparent outrageous impropriety; | while the use of this vow in "Lady Bird" is to screen from | the author, and, if possible, from the reader, the indecorum | of the scenes and situations into which the lovers are | brought, as well as their natural consequences. The scene | and the vow together accomplish the work of conversion. | From that moment Gertrude is really, not in pretence only, | devoted to her husband. He gradually recovers under her | cares and persuasions, and when the time for parting | comes, and they say farewell to Adrien d'Arberg, | | | But though Gertrude has forgiven her husband, the author | has not, or at least knows that the vindictive reader will | demand an appropriate expiation. Therefore that night the | ship takes fire, when already close to the shore. Maurice | and Gertrude are brought safe to land in the boats, but | Adrien waits till the last, taking care of his emigrants. | They behold from the shore the imminence of his peril, | and Maurice himself rows off in a boat, and with great | exertion saves him and brings him to land, but at the | moment breaks a blood-vessel, and dying, seeks to join the | hands of the lovers as a last atonement; but, of course, the | vow prevents this consummation, so standing together | over Maurice's grave, they part for ever. | | Gertrude becomes a mother, and lavishes on her son | Maurice all the love she so long withheld from his father. | She remains many years in America, devoting herself to | good works, till summoned home by her brother who tells | her she can do no better work than return to her father, | whom time has changed and broken down. She obeys this | call, and takes up her abode once more in Lifford Grange, | forgiven by her father and devoting herself to him. Mr. | Lifford leads a life of solitude and penance, and to such a | length carries his change of views, that he permits his son | to marry a young lady of respectable but not ancient | family. Mary, we need scarcely say, becomes a sister of | charity, | | and the last we hear of D'Arberg is as a missionary in | China; so matters turn out much more to the credit of all | parties than might at one time have been anticipated, or | than we can at all suppose they would have done in the | field of real life. | | | After threading the maze of harrowing perplexities thus set | forth by Lady Georgiana, having followed her characters | through their course of fatal mistakes and hair-breadth perils, | witnessed their bursts of tragic passion, listened to their turgid | sentiments, and felt the whole to be the offspring of a lively | imagination, confined within too narrow a sphere of | observation, ~~ a society removed so high above many of the | real troubles of life that they must needs allow idleness and | luxury to coin some for them, ~~ it is, we own, a relief to turn | to the work-day world of "Villette." The rough winds of | common life make a better atmosphere for fiction than the stove | heat of the "higher circles". | Currer Bell, by hardly | earning her experience, has, at the least, | won her knowledge in a field of action where more can | sympathise; though we cannot speak of sympathy, or of | ourselves as in any sense sharing in it, without a protest against | the outrages on decorum, the moral perversity, the toleration of, | nay, indifference to vice which deform her first powerful | picture of a desolate woman's trials and sufferings ~~ faults | which make Jane Eyre a dangerous book, and which must leave | permanent mistrust of the author on all thoughtful and | scrupulous minds. But however alloyed with blame this | sympathy has necessarily been, there are indications of its | having cheered her and done her good. Perhaps, as it was | argued of Gertrude, she has been the better for a little happiness | and success, for in many important moral points "Villette" is an | improvement on its predecessors. The author has gained both in | amiability and propriety since she first presented herself to the | world, ~~ soured, coarse, and grumbling; an alien, it might | seem, from society, and amenable to none of its laws. | | We have said that Currer Bell has found life not a home, but a | school; and this is more than a figure, as we gather from all her | works. She may, indeed, be considered the novelist of the | schoolroom, not, we need scarcely explain, for any peculiar | fitness for the pure youthful mind, her best efforts exhibit, but | because, as the scholastic world would seem to have been the | main theatre of her experience ~~ as here have been excited, in | herself, many a vivid thought and keen interest ~~ she chooses | that others shall enter it with her. We will not condescend to | shift the scene; she will not stoop to her reader's prejudices ~~ | they must overcome them; what has interested her, she means | shall interest them: nor are we losers by the obligation. It | cannot be denied that hitherto the art of teaching has cast | | a suspicion of coldness and dryness over its professors: it | should not be so; it is unfair to an honourable profession, which | should at least be cheered by sympathy in its irksome labours. | In these days of educational enthusiasm the prejudice ought to | be done away. Currer Bell seems to regard it as the mission of | her genius to effect this: her clear, forcible, picturesque style | gives life to what our fancies thought but a vegetating | existence. Not that she wishes to represent life in the | schoolroom as happy; far from it; but she shows us that life | does not stagnate there in an eternal round of grammar and | dictionary ~~ in a perpetual infusion of elementary knowledge; | and wherever it can be shown to flow freely and vigorously, | wherever the mind has scope and the heart and emotions free | play, there we an find interest and excitement. Villette must be | considered the most scholastic of the series. In "Jane Eyre" we | have the melancholy experience of the Clergy-daughters' | school, and her own subsequent position as governess; in | "Shirley" we have the heart-enthralling tutor, and the heiress | falling in love as she learns her French and writes her copy-books | under the assumed austerity of his rule, ~~ a wrong state | of things, we need not say: but in "Villette" almost the whole | corps of the drama is furnished for the | Pensionnat de Demoiselles. | The flirting beauty of a school-girl; the grave, | thoughtful young English teacher, with her purely intellectual | attractions; Madame, the directress, the presiding genius; the | little French professor of | for the hero, | and the classes and large school-garden for the scenes. Even the | outer-world hero, Graham, comes in as the physician of the | establishment, and is entangled by the school-girl beauty; | though it is his business to introduce us sometimes to the world | beyond the walls, which now and then affords a refreshing | change. | | Nor does she gain the point of interesting us by ignoring any | professional peculiarity which belongs to the science of | teaching. Even the writer (for it is an autobiography) is, we see | clearly, in look and air the "teacher" she describes herself: her | manner affected and influenced by her position. The | consciousness of being undervalued, the longings | for someone | to care for her leading to some undignified results, the | necessary self-reliance, the demure air, the intellect held in | check, but indemnifying itself for the world's neglect and | indifference by the secret indulgence of an arrow-like | penetration, ~~ all are portrayed; and for the hero ~~ what can | be more like a professor and less like a standard hero than M. | Emmanuel Paul? a character in the highest degree fresh and | original, but in no sense calculated to attract a lady's fancy, | except in scenes where the world of male society is shut out as | it is in large female assemblies, ~~ in schools, | | convents, and, according to the satirist, old maid coteries, ~~ in | all of which a very small amount of heroic qualities are often | found enough to constitute a man a hero. | | Villette, which is the scene of the greater part of the story, | means the city of Brussels. In her free strictures on the Belgian | character, the author has apparently felt at greater ease in | directing her satire under a feigned name; so Belgium is | Labassecour, and its capital is Villette: but we are not at once | introduced to them. The writer has an English experience first | to relate, mainly for the purpose of giving a very peculiar | picture of childhood. Whether it is owing to her school | experience, or learnt from some tenderer source, our author | shows a very delicate appreciation and knowledge of the | childish character. All will remember the happy satire of French | childhood in "Jane Eyre". We must present to our readers a | sketch, in a different spirit, of a little affectionate English girl; | who later in the book grows into so agreeable a character that | we could have wished to see more of her; two or three very | pretty scenes are, however, all that are afforded us. | | The writer, Lucy Snowe, then a girl of sixteen, is visiting her | godmother, Mrs. Bretton, a widow lady of kind, cheerful | disposition, and mother of an only son, Graham, who plays | subsequently the part of hero outside the Pensionnat. Mrs. | Bretton's friend, Mr. Home, having just lost his wife under | painful circumstances of separation and estrangement, is going | to travel, and leaves his little girl, of six or seven, under her | care. The nurse is to bring her by the coach, and we give her | first introduction. We omit a good deal, and still it is long; but | we think our readers will enjoy so much the playful truth and | grace of the scene, and the subsequent one with Graham, as not | to wish it further curtailed: ~~ | | After some silent attentions, there ensues the following | conversation: ~~ | | We have not space for the decorous deportment and suppressed | grief, the moans and heartache of the little lady during some | days, her papa her one thought, by night and by day. | | | | It was her papa. Very quiet the pair are in the happiness of | meeting again. | | Soon we are introduced to Mrs. Bretton's son, Graham. He has been absent | from home till now, and the opening acquaintance of these | incipient lovers is thus described: ~~ | | | There is more in the same strain between these young people; | but soon the time of the story changes. The defect of the plot is | a want of continuity. In fact, the style is rather that of an | autobiography ~~ and, perhaps, excusable as adopting that form | ~~ than a novel. Persons are introduced in the beginning who | have no share in the conduct of the story; adventures are given, | which begin and end in themselves. The whole episode | | of Miss Marchmont is of this nature. At the end of it we find | our heroine ~~ she would not give herself this ambitious title | ~~ friendless and penniless, except for the l5 l. which remain | from her salary as Miss Marchmont's companion. The spirit of | adventure rises with the need for exertion. She goes to London, | and from thence sails to Bouemarine, the sea-port of | Labassecour, to seek her fortune in a foreign land; and here | commences the scholastic part of the story, for on board she | meets with Ginevra Fanshawe, a girl of seventeen, on her way | to Madame Beck's establishment at Villette. If she is intended | as a portrait of the foreign-bred English girl, the picture is not | encouraging. There is an air of knowledge and experience of | the class which induces us to extract it, as possibly useful at a | time when so much is sacrificed to the study of languages, the | acquirement of a correct accent, and the like: ~~ | | | This slight mention of Villette and Madame Beck is enough to | direct our homeless heroine's steps thither, though it is partly by | accident that she finds herself, late in the evening, at the doors | of the Pensionnat, and gains an interview with its mistress. | There can be no doubt ~~ the style admits of none ~~ that, | however fictitious may be the mode of admittance there, the | description of the establishment itself, and many of its inmates, | is drawn from nature and fact. The school is a real school; the | state of things there is such as seemed to the writer actually to | exist; and, above all, the Professor, to whom we are about to be | introduced, is a real, | bona fide, actual | personage, a close study from the life ~~ an admirably-drawn | portrait ~~ not a creation, in any other sense than an expressive, | spirited, picturesque portrait may be called one. Not only does | this character bear in every stage, at every fresh touch, the mark | of reality, but the authoress finds that difficulty in bending him | to her plot that a real person, set to play his part amongst | inventions, must always furnish. The lame conclusion of the | story confirms the previous conviction; but the reader excuses | the failure. Having enjoyed M. Paul through the book, we are | content that he should disappear in a mist of indistinctness at | the end. It is the truth in him we have cared for; ~~ that | remains, whatever uncertainty may be thrown over his fictitious | existence. He is introduced to the reader with little | prestige or ostentation. He is cousin to | Madame Beck; and she summons him to form a judgment on | the Englishwoman: ~~ | | | Thus began the Professor's studies of Miss Lucy, as she was | called. Very much she subsequently engages his attention, and | excites his curiosity. But the little Frenchman could not see into | her heart, as she read his; and it is her portraiture of an | excitable, irascible, jealous, vain, yet at heart true and amiable | nature, which is one of the chief sources of amusement in the | really good portions of this very unequal work. | | M. Paul takes no prominent part, however, at first. Madame | Beck's establishment and system have to be described, ~~ a | very fair scene for this author's peculiar habits of observation; | for her favourite point of view is not the received one, and quite | the reverse of that pedestal and harmonious arrangement of | lights, which some clever women have thought the only fair site | from which | of every character when free from | the restraints that society imposes. Thus the beautiful flirt that | fascinates in the ball-room, is seen with all her careless, rude, | rough, schoolroom selfishness, where there are no men to keep | her in order; girlhood, in general, is stripped of its poetical | illusions; Madame Beck, whose public career is so useful and | respectable, sinks into a spy. It is the same in Currer Bell's | former works. She is jealous of the dress-side of life: ~~ being, | for some reason, cut off from, and by her peculiar class of faults | and deficiencies ill adapted to it, she is not in its interests. She | describes gay scenes well and vividly; but solely as a spectator, | not as an assistant and component part, which is the element of | pleasure in all festal scenes. A feeling is always conveyed | which it would be unjust to call envy, implying rather a kind of | yearning, a sense of isolation, which may not belong wholly to | situation, and perhaps is inseparable | | from keen penetration, but which, as we have said, fits in | exactly with the position and the character assumed in the story. | | Madame Beck's establishment is conducted on the system of | surveillance which some have thought necessary to good | education, ~~ a system of which she is complete mistress, being | addicted to arts which are usually supposed to be practised only | by the detective police of some tyrannical power, but which the | present writer traces to the influence of Roman Catholicism in | the countries where it prevails. | | There is probably prejudice, but there may be also valuable | information, in her picture of even a good foreign school: ~~ | | | But the results of the system are still what none would desire. | We would hope that the following pictures of girlhood are | exaggerated, ~~ that that propensity to daguerreotype truth, | which actually does make things uglier than they are, has been | at work. We give, first, the look an aspect of a class of girls | thus educated, explaining that Madame Beck had soon found | her new inmate fit for better things than making children's | frocks; and had proposed to her to give a lesson of English to | the | which consisted of sixty girls. Without | any previous explanation she was introduced to her new and | formidable pupils: ~~ | | | We believe that this peculiar aspect, these eyes, and hard | unblushing brows, are to be found in our island, under the same | circumstances as foster them in Labassecour. Wherever girls | and young women, for any purpose, are brought in great | numbers together, and allowed to associate in wild unrestrained | companionship, the same thing may be observed. Girls, we | believe, are not suited to congregate in large numbers together: | they lose their charm, the softness, and the bloom, and many of | the precious things these flowery words typify, under such | training. To such an exterior corresponds the following view of | heart and principle. We give it with no means ourselves of | verifying the truth of so awful a charge; nor are we told how the | naive confession ever reached the | author's Protestant ears: ~~ | | Reflecting upon this extraordinary moral perversity, the English | teacher once ventured to remonstrate, and to express her views | of the relative depravity of the two sins ~~ a lie, or an | occasional omission in Church going. Such an opinion was | repeated in higher quarters; for we are led to suppose that | Madame Beck was not the only practiser of surveillance; and | Miss Lucy was henceforth an object for religious suspicion. We | are not at all proud of her as a representative of our reformed | faith; and believe there might be much better reason for this | than she would be willing to allow. We own we should be sorry | to | | subject any child of ours to the teaching and insinuations of the | mind here pictured; whose religion is without awe, ~~ who | despises and sets down every form and distinction she cannot | understand, ~~ who rejects all guides but her Bible, and at the | same time constantly quotes and plays with its sacred pages, as | though they had been given to the world for no better purpose | than to point a witticism or furnish an ingenious illustration. | | Having established her authority amongst the young ladies of | the | ~~ the scene of doing which is well | given, ~~ Lucy finds her position in the school materially | raised. Without possessing any accomplishments, her talents | make way, and she is valued at her true worth by the sagacious | directress. From her home in Pensionnat she also has some | agreeable glimpses of the outer world. It is not necessary to | detail the course of events. But in due time Graham Bretton | comes again on the scene. His mother has met with some | reverses; and he is now practising in the medical profession at | Villette. In this capacity he is called in (Dr. Pillule, the regular | attendant, being absent) to one of Madame's children, who has | broken its arm; and after a while Lucy recognises her old | friend; but it is part of the peculiar reserve of her character, that | she does not seek any explanation or renewal of acquaintance | with him, satisfied with this additional motive for interest. | | Our authoress would care for no faultless character. In Graham, | she wishes to describe a man who would pass, with the less | discriminating observer, for an uncommonly fine fellow. | Handsome, clever, spirited, energetic, prudent, affectionate and | amiable, she yet desires to describe some quality in him, ~~ the | cause of pain and suffering to the less fortunate, ~~ a kind of | worldliness as well as subtlety, an insight into his own interest, | and a gift at securing them, which would render it impossible in | him to commit what the world would consider an imprudence, | and which makes him fortunate at the expense of magnanimity. | We doubt whether she classes it as one of his faults, that he | carries on private communications with Ginevra while admitted | professionally to Madame's establishment. On such points, | Currer Bell's own morality is very faulty. Ginevra meets him in | society, and has not sense to see the value and dignity of her | conquest; her chief pleasure being in playing him off against | her real favourite, a "fut" of the | Labassecourian aristocracy. But we have not room for the frank | and audacious confessions of this young lady, who is really | very well drawn, having that sort of constitutional candour, | which so often wins a person a character for amiability, and is | perhaps really amongst the most worthless of qualities, ~~ the | mere fruit of selfish vanity and love of talking. She | condescends to accept presents from | | Dr. John, as Graham is called, but she is half ashamed of his | name as bourgeois, and wholly | ashamed of, what she calls, his red hair: for Graham's locks | share the general fate of that doubtful hue, which is red or | chestnut according to the feelings of the observer, ~~ not a | question so much of eyesight as of predilection. Probably our | authoress chooses to invest him with them, as accounting for | the sanguine and yet wily phase of his character. They serve at | least to give a distinctive character to his tall and noble | appearance, keen blue eyes, dangerous smile, and Grecian | regularity of feature. | | We conclude our authoress considers it inevitable ~~ or she | would not have subjected her favourite to this disgrace ~~ that, | in the young teacher's desolate and friendless condition, the | preeminent attractions of the young physician should not be | without their effect on her mind, and this in spite of her insight | into his character, and her consciousness that she has none of | the qualities necessary to fix his attention, ~~ as if cleverness, | in matters of this nature, were no safeguard, as very likely it is | not. A wild and improbable chance brings Lucy once again | under her godmother's roof, who is now established in the | environs of Villette, and places her again on intimate terms with | Graham. | | While we commend the point and graphic power of Currer | Bell's best style, we must explain that many parts of this book | do not deserve this praise. Many passages are turgid, flighty, | unreasonable, or otherwise objectionable, and involving | subjects not suited for composition at all. Thus, in the holidays, | when left to herself, she has a nervous fever, and in the course | of it has excited thoughts, and does eccentric things. Such | matters are too much like dreams, be they fancy or experience, | to be otherwise than irksome to the reader. In one stage of this | disorder she enters a church, and on a momentary impulse goes | to confession, explaining to the priest that she is a Protestant, | and enlarging on the disordered state of her mind. In walking | home after this singular proceeding she faints, and returns to | consciousness in Mrs. Bretton's house, who nurses her under | Graham's judicious superintendence. Seeing her lowness of | spirits in returning to her school life, he promises to write to | her. She knows well it is only in the purest good nature, yet the | excitement with which she receives it is hardly compatible with | the conviction of his real indifference, careful as she is to | explain the humility of her own pretensions. We have | complained of her Scriptural allusions, the following passage | furnishes an example: ~~ | | For it was the little Professor who had, in his meddling fashion, | got the letter from the portress, and delivered it to her. | | We have left the Professor for the duties of the story; it is fit | now to return to him. While indulging in these unreasonable | cravings for Graham's sympathy, she has become an object of | real interest to M. Paul, though of a very particular sort. Alive | to her talent, and decidedly jealous of it, his attentions often | assume the most unpleasant, obtrusive, and inconvenient forms | ~~ critical, authoritative, querulous, he is perpetually interfering | with her. He has a peculiar view of her character ~~ that it | needs being kept down: he thinks it his mission to do this. He | lives indeed, in a constant crusade against the | | of others, whom he exhorts to | | while nothing | pleases the little man himself like display. He is in his element, | controlling and arranging a hundred young ladies, lecturing, | making "discourse", and in any way filling the public eye. He is | subject to paroxysms of angry impatience and suspicions: | manifesting | when his | feelings of jealous consequence are attacked. Like Napoleon, he | would have waged war against twenty learned women. She has | to exhaust her armoury of figure and metaphor to express the | alternations and unreasonableness of his humour, ~~ to practise | all her pictorial and dramatic skill, to give us any idea of this | most whimsical being. The man being thus, and having already | had his jealousy awakened by her acquaintance with these | English friends, we are not to wonder that he indulged himself | in a scowl of mistrust as he gave her Graham's letter, and | acknowledged her thanks with a vicious glance. But the | following episode will give our reader a better notion of M. | Emmanuel than any further description. It could not be | shortened without being spoiled, which must be our excuse for | its length. Our authoress shines in such scenes. Her accuracy | and truth of detail, the bright playful enjoyment of her own | success, her power of seizing the point, of bringing | | minds in contact, of showing what vivid moments there are in | scenes apparently trivial, if only a quick eye and graphic pen | can catch the evanescent spirit, and give it consistency, are all | delightful. Can our readers doubt that this scene is no invention, | but in some modification or other has actually occurred? | | | | The message was to summon M. Paul to meet an official visitor | at the Athenee . It | was urgent, he must go; and it was | well known that he hated a must. Under these aggravated | circumstances of danger, our heroine dares the enterprise. | | | | | We do not wonder, with such skill in turning this fiery little | temper, that Miss Lucy found herself attracted towards the | | possessor of it. It diverted her to hear his strictures on herself. | When his voice hissed wrathful strictures in her ear she could | find ingenious and apt comparison from the range of natural | history. If he complained of her tendency to value attentions | from his fancied rival, Dr. John, | | or suspected | her of a wish to figure in class, an able | examiner in that branch from which his restricted knowledge of | the English language (confined to | ) | excluded him ~~ if in his exasperation at some fancied slight he | launches into contemptuous comments on that false god of the | pagan English ~~ Williams Shackspere; or allows himself a | furious philippic upon English women and their impious | scepticism, ~~ she can still afford to take it all with the most | edifying serenity of temper, for she has her indemnity in the | pleasure of watching and appreciating his singularities, national | and individual. | | | We wish we had space for the scene of Monsieur's | fete, | given in the best style of tender, sympathising, almost | pathetic humour: where the day, with all its bouquets and | French sentimentalities, is embittered by the absence of any | flowers from Miss Lucy; his rising indignation at the slight; his | "discours" to the young ladies; his resolution to excite the | Englishwoman out of her composure, | | when he succeeds; the subsequent | reconciliation when she finds him, after his prying wont, | peeping into her school-desk and leaving books there that he | knew she would like; his taking a | which had half escaped | him on being caught in the | act, ~~ are all excellent. Every scene over which she has | pondered is rich in point and allusion, and so far in contrast | with a certain flighty declamatory vein which we find her now | and then indulging in, to the reader's simple perplexity. There is | an account of an actress which we would adduce as an instance | of this gusty, turgid style. But to return. Once she is really | angry with the professor, which she records for the satisfaction | she felt in being able to assume a manner of dignified | displeasure on the occasion, of which she did not think herself | capable. It is remarkable, indeed, how often the consciousness | of intellect is dissociated from any power of self-assertion, and | many a clever, penetrating mind will | | understand the feeling of the following passage. M. Paul had | been | on an occasion when | she thought it necessary to show some sense of injury. | Conscious of having done wrong he endeavours to propitiate | before she leaves the company. | | | For success in society, and to be its match and equal, a person | should not be too deep a student either of himself or others. | With all his absurdities, M. Paul is a man of great ability, | almost of genius. We are conscious of his real power while we | laugh at him. It is a sort of simplicity and humility, an avowed | contempt for his own dignity, which shows so prominently his | vanity and other weak points. We are disposed in the end to | adopt the writer's conclusion, that it is his nerves that are | irritable, not his temper. His religion, too, after the fashion of | his country, is a very real and genuine feature. We quite | acquiesce in her content to have him as he is, without any | attempt to make him like herself. He had been educated by a | Jesuit, and is still most dutiful at confession, having to go | through some tribulations on account of his predilection for the | English heretic, whom he endeavours in vain to convert by | laying persuasive brochures in her | way, which she treats with true Protestant contempt. Childlike | in his faith, he is also pure in life, and the soul of honour; in all | these points being in happy contrast with his brother professors. | Some romantic acts of generosity and self-denial, which come | out towards the end of the story, have not truth enough about | them to match with his very true character; and in the same way | the scenes of love-making in the end, between him and Lucy, | have a very apocryphal air, unrelieved by those felicitous traits | of nature which brighten the more comic representations of his | character, and from which we have derived so much | amusement, that we would not exchange one of his foibles for | all the perfections of the | | stereotyped hero. Though we cannot commend either the nature | or the fitness of this pair's love-making, there are some pretty | scenes of this sort in which Paulina and Graham are engaged. | This young lady at seventeen is a good deal like her former self; | and might deserve her character of | but for the error | our authoress falls into ~~ too | characteristic of her dull perceptions of duty ~~ in allowing her | to receive and answer several letters from Graham before | telling her father. In this case the impropriety is quite | gratuitous, as her father is most indulgent, and his daughter not | afraid of him. The graceful scene where she persuades her | father into giving his consent would be quite worthy of extract, | but that we have already exceeded our limits. They marry, and | are happy. Ginevra runs away with her "fat," | highly indignant at the desertion of Dr. John. M. Paul, | having to go to Martinique, establishes Miss Lucy in a | pensionnat of her own: they were to be | married on his return. Whether they are | married, or whether he is drowned in a storm, described | in very windy fashion, is a moot point, but happily one which in | no way affects the spirits, and scarcely arouses the curiosity, of | the reader: an indifference which leads to the true conclusion | ~~ that the merit of the book lies in its scenes, and not in its | plot. | | The moral purpose of this work seems to be to demand for a | certain class of minds a degree of sympathy not hitherto | accorded to them; a class of which Lucy Snowe is the type, who | must be supposed to embody much of the authoress's own | feelings and experience, all going one way to express a | character which finds itself unworthily represented by person | and manner, conscious of power, equally and painfully | conscious of certain drawbacks, which throw this superiority | into shade and almost hopeless disadvantage. For such she | demands room to expand, love, tenderness, and a place in | happy domestic life. But in truth she draws a character unfit for | this home which she yearns for. We want a woman at our | hearth; and her impersonations are without the feminine | element, infringers of modest restraints, despisers of bashful | fears, self-reliant, contemptuous of prescriptive decorum; their | own unaided reason, their individual opinion of right and | wrong, discreet or imprudent, sole guides of conduct and rules | of manners, ~~ the whole hedge of immemorial scruple and | habit broken down and trampled upon. We will sympathise | with Lucy Snowe as being fatherless and penniless, and are | ready, if this were all, to wish her a husband and a fireside less | trying than M. Paul's must be, unless reformed out of all | identity; but we cannot offer even the affections of our fancy | (the right and due of every legitimate heroine) to her | unscrupulous, and self-dependent intellect ~~ to that whole | habit of mind | | which, because it feels no reverence, can never inspire for itself | that one important, we may say, indispensable element of man's | true love. | | One suggestion we would make in parting with these two ladies | ~~ a question applicable to other scrutinizers of the female | bosom ~~ whether, indeed, they are consulting the interests of | the sex, for which they contend so earnestly, by betraying ~~ | what gallantry is slow to credit ~~ that women give away their | hearts unsought as often as they would have us believe? So long | as men wrote romance, that heart was | described as an all-but-impregnable fortress; the language of | war and strategy could alone convey adequate ideas of the | courage and the policy necessary for its subjugation, ~~ the | conqueror's laurels alone express the flush of triumph when the | reluctant prize yields at length. But now that our fair rivals | wield the pen, the tables are turned. These spies within the | walls reveal a wholly different state of things. They show us the | invader greeted from afar ~~ invited, indeed, within the walls. | They betray the castle to have been all the while wanting a | commander, the heart an owner. If it were indeed so, would the | prize won on such easy terms be thought so much worth the | having? would this "more than willingness" | satisfy the inherent | love of difficulty and of achievement in man's nature? But, | happily, the question need not seriously be asked. A restless | heart and vagrant imagination, though owned by woman, can | have no sympathy or true insight into the really feminine | nature. Such cannot appreciate the hold which a daily round of | simple duties and pure pleasures has on those who are content | to practise and enjoy them. They do not know the power of | home over the heart ~~ how it asserts its sway against new and | more enthralling interests. Those who own such influences will | still be difficult to win. Nor can we promise the aspirant to their | favour any such eloquent, unsought avowals as the maidens of | modern romance succeed so well in. He must be content to wait | for the genial influences of a new home, to unthaw reserve; for | trial, to prove constancy; and time and sorrow, to develop the | full force, the boundless resources, of a pure, unselfish | affection.